


Commission

by SoftlyTea



Series: The Misguided Adventures of Liya and her Superiorly-Bred Mer [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Imani causes chaos, Thalmor, Thalmor Embassy, Thalmor-baiting, fanfiction about fanfiction, in which Elenwen is not happy, it's good to have a hobby, superior Altmer smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftlyTea/pseuds/SoftlyTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rulindil has a secret. Or should that be - <i>had</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imdex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imdex/gifts).



> A follow-on from ImDex's [Sitting Ducks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6886264). This will make no sense if you don't read that first. ;) Rulindil's superior literary prowess is directly taken from there. Also makes heavy reference to the chaos that ImDex's lovely Imani has been wreaking in the Thalmor Embassy. 
> 
> Look, just - go read all her stuff and come back here when you're done, 'kay?
> 
> Bethesda owns all except Liya (mine) and Imani (ImDex's).

It is a known fact that people tend to let their guard down after sex. Ondolemar was no exception, and this evening, Liya was on the hunt.

‘So…’ she asked, feigning nonchalance. 'Risqué Altmer literature?’

Ondolemar’s fingers tangled in her hair as he gazed up at the ceiling in a pleasant post-orgasmic haze.

'Well, we - we have it. Of course. I don’t think there’s a race on Nirn that doesn’t. Maybe the Falmer. Urgh.’

Liya giggled.

'I can’t imagine you Altmer writing smut. Is it all flowery? Lots of references to blushing maidens and heaving bosoms and flying on the wings of unbridled passion?’

Ondolemar gave her a side-long glance.

'No,’ he replied, flatly.

An undaunted Liya rolled onto her stomach and shot him a playful grin.

'So… what _is_ it like, then? You should read me some! Oooh, better yet - write me some! I’m sure it would be terribly superior.’

Ondolemar returned her smile in spite of himself.

'As inspirational as you may be in that regard, Liya, I am not writing you erotica. It would be - ill-advised. Risky.’

'Why? I wouldn’t tell anyone about it. What could possibly go wrong?’

 _What could possibly go wrong._ Rulindil had probably thought that, too.

Ondolemar thought for a moment.

'You wanted me to tell you a story? Very well. Here is a story about an unfortunate Embassy interrogator who learned an important lesson in filing.’

Liya gave a little 'ooh!’ of excitement and snuggled up into his arms to listen.

'Some weeks ago,’ Ondolemar began, 'I received a summons to the Embassy from Elenwen. A spate of recent security breaches with humiliating consequences had prompted the Ambassador to call an urgent meeting of her highest-ranking officers in the field to review our procedures, and-’

'What sort of humiliating consequences?’

'Degrading, insulting, injurious consequences which should have landed their perpetrator in the depths of Northwatch, but sadly did not. Don’t interrupt. Now, as I was saying…’

—

The Embassy. At last.

Ondolemar dismounted, handed his snorting mare’s reins to a waiting guard and strode inside, grateful to be out of the chill. Despite the arduous journey, he was happy to be here among his kin once more. Quite simply, he detested Markarth; Liya was its one saving grace, but she came and went as she pleased, and he couldn’t exactly chain her up and keep her there indefinitely, much as he might want to.

He divested himself of his travelling furs and gratefully accepted a glass of hot brandy from a servant, who scurried off to inform the Ambassador of his arrival. There was a certain atmosphere of unease in the Embassy, Ondolemar noted. Those - _incidents_ \- must have caused quite the stir.

He was not left alone to his musings for long, however, before Rulindil appeared in the doorway.

'Commander. I thought I heard you come in.’

Ondolemar inclined his head respectfully. 'Emissary. An honour to have your company. How do you fare?’

'As well as can be expected. That - ah, _irritating_ little wretch of a Breton caused us far more trouble than she should have.’

Elenwen swept in, nodded briskly to Ondolemar by way of greeting, barked out an order to convene in the council chambers in two minutes, and swept back out again.

The two mer shared a knowing look. Elenwen was on edge, and this did not bode well for a good day.

—

The meeting was long, tedious, and rather unpleasant. A selection of soldiers were ordered to give a painfully full account of the incidents leading up to their unfortunate immobilisation, and the attendees pored over the Embassy plans trying to find any weak points the Breton could have exploited, but they found none.

'Third Emissary Rulindil.’ Elenwen’s cold eyes suddenly fixed on the hapless interrogator, who swallowed nervously.

'Ambassador?’

'Please tell the assembled company exactly how _you_ spent the day in question.’

'I was in my office working on my, my reports, when I experienced a sudden blow to the back of my head that rendered me unconscious. When I was revived by the Ambassador’s judicious application of shock magic, I realised that the… intruder had left me in a somewhat… exposed… position.’

'And what position might that be, Emissary?’

_She’s enjoying this. The bitch._

'If the present company would excuse the image, she had taken the liberty of… removing my robes, leaving me in only my, urm, smallclothes. She had also bound me in a rather humiliating position, as already described by the soldiers here.’

Ondolemar suppressed a smirk. He rather thought that Liya would love this.

'And then?’

'Then we scoured the Embassy and found nothing, as we have already heard. I went to bed that evening, and the next morning - well, the next morning the Breton had struck again.’

'And could you comment on how this little incident was able to happen without your having heard?’

'No, Madam Ambassador. I am afraid I could not. I can only assume she is an adept user of Illusion magic, and I was perhaps rather engrossed in my, uh, writing. Report writing, that is. As I said.’

Ondolemar’s eyebrow raised. Something was not quite right with the Third Emissary.

The meeting, ultimately, was fruitless. Patrols were doubled, again, and watches were extended, again, but there was nothing else to be done.

Elenwen was not happy.

–

By the time the day’s business was concluded, evening and an accompanying violent snowstorm had drawn in, and Ondolemar did not relish travelling back to Markarth in such conditions. It was actually for the best that he stay the night, Ondolemar mused as he made his way to Rulindil’s office. He was rather hoping to get a sense of recent events at the Embassy aside from the little Breton’s jaunts.

Rulindil seemed grateful to see him. If the ink stains on his hands and the slightly glazed look to his expression were anything to go by, his working day was far from over, and a break seemed just what he needed.

'Perhaps you would allow me to read through your reports?’ Ondolemar asked after some pleasant idle conversation, gesturing to the slightly haphazard stack of papers teetering on the Emissary’s desk.

'But of course. Stay here for the evening, if you would rather. Ask me if there is anything unclear. Elenwen requested that I write up a full account of today’s meeting anyway, so I won’t be sleeping for a while yet.’

Ondolemar hm-ed in an almost sympathetic fashion, picked up the armful of papers, and settled himself into the armchair by the fire to read.

The minutes passed.

The fire crackled. Rulindil’s quill scratched across the parchment. Papers rustled. Rulindil was quite an accomplished writer, it seemed; Ondolemar was positively _enjoying_ his reports.

The pile was growing smaller. It was down to the last two or three, now.

He sipped his brandy, skimmed through the particularly unpleasant parts of an interrogation report.

Last one, a single sheet of paper, just a couple of paragraphs. No date. No sign and seal. Odd; perhaps it was unfinished.

_Divine. She was absolutely divine._

Wait… What? This wasn’t how interrogation reports usually went. He continued, brow furrowed in confusion.

_The Breton clenched around his thick shaft…_

No. This couldn’t be…

He read on in horrified fascination, unable to tear his eyes away, unsure if he even wanted to. After all, _You were built to be bent over and taken by superior Altmer…_ \- that was quite the image.

No! Focus!

He swallowed thickly, cleared his throat, tugged at his collar. He was beginning to feel unseasonably warm.

'Emissary?’

The oblivious author laid aside his quill, massaged cramp from his hand, and looked over to the increasingly uncomfortable Ondolemar.

'Is there something I can clarify for you?’

Just tell him, damn it. Just say it, and then you can leave, and forget that this awful situation ever took place.

'Yes. Yes there is. Are all these reports - accurate?’

Rulindil looked confused. 'Of course. Submitting false reports is an offense punishable by re-education. You know this. Why do you feel the need to ask?’

Ondolemar would never know what possessed him to toy with his compatriot in this way. He would later decide to blame Liya’s influence, but for now, he was born on an inexorable tide of brandy and utter horrified incredulity and ever-so-slight arousal, and could no sooner stop the words that followed from spilling from his mouth than he could the waves.

'That Breton. Did she really smell of lavender?’

Let it never be said that Altmer were expressionless. In the seconds that followed, an impressive array of emotions flashed across Rulindil’s face. Confusion gave way to sickening, gut-wrenching realisation as his face paled, eyes widened in terror, and in three angry strides he had crossed over to Ondolemar and snatched the page from his hands -

'I…’

He stopped, realising too late that he had no words to continue his sentence.

Ondolemar waited patiently, a rather uncharacteristic wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

'This…’ Rulindil tried again.

Ondolemar’s eyebrows raised encouragingly.

'This… isn’t what it looks like,’ he finished, lamely.

'Oh? What is it, then?’

'It’s… I… well, yes, it _is_ what it looks like, but… it’s for a friend. A… commission. Of sorts.’

_A **commission**?! Auri-El, if you are indeed a merciful god, you will incinerate me and this parchment I am holding right now. _

Auri-El chose not to intervene.

'A friend, you say? Could this 'friend’ be a little black-haired Breton who’s been running riot through the Embassy and knocking you out and stripping you down to your smallclothes and-’

'No! Stop!’ Rulindil’s anguish was palpable, his lie as glaringly obvious as the shameful blush that had risen to his cheeks. 'Please, desist. No, it’s… I… Look, just - don’t say a word to Elenwen. I swear, Ondolemar, if you breathe a word of this, I’ll-’

—

Liya’s eyes were wide in rapt attention.

'So, what did you say?’

'I told him that his secret was safe with me. Then I picked up my glass of brandy, went to the door, told him that he’d spelled “tumescent” wrong in paragraph 3, and went to bed.’

Liya erupted into a fit of giggles. 

‘I can tell you one thing, though. It was indeed superior. All that report writing has made our dear Rulindil quite the wordsmith…’

Perhaps he should try his hand at it himself, after all.


End file.
